


Ethlyn

by AlpacaSoon



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Angst, F/M, Feels, Heavy Angst, No Fluff, Sad Ending, Spoilers, This is probably the heaviest thing I've ever written, why do i make myself sad like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 08:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16014353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlpacaSoon/pseuds/AlpacaSoon
Summary: A look into her life.





	Ethlyn

She is only 12 when her mother dies.

She clutches to the back of her brother’s black cloak with her black gloved hands, staring with wide eyes as the coffin is lowered into the ground. Her father kneels before the grave, head bowed and shoulders lifeless in mourning as everything remaining of her mother is buried under layers of dirt.

After that, the house of Chalphy falls into chaos. Her mother had always had a understanding of everything, stern and strong yet kind and open at the same time. Even in the days before her untimely death, she stood straight and proud and staring out the window with a small smile on her face.

It take the castle almost burning to the ground for her to realize her new position.

She’d been in her room when she saw the servants rushing past, buckets in hand and panic racing freely across their faces. She’d followed to the grand ballroom, the one that her mother treasured most. It was a simple mistake—a servant had lit the candles on the great chandeliers in the morning and had forgotten to put them out. Everyone had miraculously stopped the fire, but the ceiling and walls were scorched black. She’d stood in the center of it all, the scent of ashes surrounding her, the dark black too oppressive, before she decides she must change it all.

She is the lady of the house now.

She sets a team of servants to scrubbing the ballroom. She snaps the rest to attention, surveys each room, sends them to cleaning. She sends a footman to restock the kitchen, tells the chef what to cook for dinner, then whirls away in a rush of skirts. The physical house itself is in good hands now, but she must focus on the people within them now.

Her brother is easier, so she starts with him first. He is practicing his sword, sweat gleaming and sword shining. Any other girl would swoon over his dignity, his muscles and the shirt sticking to his body. She, however, can only see the stinking shirt, the body that hasn’t been washed for several days, the wildness in his manners. Her brother is a slob.

It takes her and five other servants to wrestle him into a bath. He shouts and fights, but they manage to dump him (still fully clothed, to her cringing) into a bath. “It’s cold!” He yelps, surfacing with a splash that sends water everywhere.

She crosses her arms. “It wouldn’t have been if you’d just followed directions and hadn’t fought us off for an hour. Get clean, then dress well. I expect you tonight for dinner.” Then she sweeps away.

Her father is the hard part. She knocks gently at the door, then opens it. The unmistakable stench of whiskey hits her hard, and she wrinkles her nose at it all. In the days since her mother’s death, her father had been drinking uncontrollably, and she sees him at his desk now, holding his head in one hand, a bottle in the other. The curtains behind him are closed, but a sliver of sunlight outlines his frame. Gently, she makes her way over and stands next to his chair. She is so small—a child only of 12 years—that her eye level is just above her father’s even when she is standing and he is sitting. “Father,” she says quietly.

His eyes open and flicker over to hers. “What is it.” He rasps.

She doesn’t quite know what to say. Suddenly, in the dark of the study, surrounded by sadness and uncontrollable grief, the weight on her shoulders finally registers in her mind. Her mother is gone. She must take responsibility.

She cries. She grips her skirts and sobs. Her father’s face, so stern, falls, distraught. He gathers his daughter close, and she cries into the crook of his shoulder. “Dearest daughter,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

It wasn’t his fault. Apologies can’t bring the dead back, anyway. But in that space, as they mourn together, the family ties grow strong again.

 

* * *

 

She first meets her husband when he comes with her brother, back to Chalphy for a summer trip. It’s not love at first sight—she sees him simply as another amiable slob as she goes out to greet them as lady of the house. That thought, however, quickly changes.

“I want to unite Thracia,” he says quietly, as they are walking in the garden, her brother and his other friend dueling in the courtyard not too far away.

She is surprised. She’d been fully prepared to make small talk, but talking about his lifelong dream requires very detailed thought. She is happy, though. This is not just another man that thinks her an accessory, another pretty  _ thing _ to look at. “What do you plan to do?” She asks him.

He smiles at her then, and she is falling hard and fast.

 

* * *

 

Her hands tremble as she hands her husband the holy lance. “May this new power bring peace to us all.” And then she is crying, and she is 12 again, small and weak and afraid of the war raging around her. She grips her skirt and the tears fall thick and fat and heavy down her cheeks.

Her husband drops the lance— _ don’t,  _ she wants to say—and gathers her into his arms. She clutches him back, head pressed against his thumping heart, as he whispers promises of love and peace into her ears. She falls into bed with him, heart and body aflame and she clings to his words and believes in them.

 

* * *

 

Everything around them is moving too fast as the dragons swirl around them. Her husband far away—or maybe close by?—is shouting orders, to protect, to  _ fight. _ Her daughter in her arms is crying in fear and panic, and there is only so much she can do with her minimal sword training. Suddenly she is falling, and crashes into the sand, shielding her daughter as much as she can as her horse screams and panics and runs. Getting up, she freezes as an axeblade is held to her neck. Next to her, her daughter wails, and she speaks past the fear in her throat to tell her that “Mommy’s okay, darling. We’ll be okay. I’ll protect you.”

“Oh, really? How do you plan to that?” The enemy before her smirks, and she glances to the side to see her husband fighting. Suddenly, the cold, hard fear lodging itself in her throat coils around her heart, and she understands that they plan to use her life as a bargaining chip, and she can’t do that,  _ she can’t do that _ to her husband fighting so fearlessly for what he believes. She can’t let their love take his dream away from him.

He is turning now, and she can’t let him see her like this, can’t wait for his beautiful voice to save her pitiful life in exchange for his heroic dream, so she leans forward and slices one last red smile into her body.


End file.
